


Real

by babybrotherdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dissociation, Gen, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean Winchester, Post-Hell, Scars, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 07:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8788810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: He’s missing pieces. Physical evidence of his entire life; a roadmap of every fight he’s ever won or lost, every time his life has nearly ended. Every bullet, every claw, every set of gnashing, razor-sharp teeth that have tried to tear him to bits.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea in my drafts for a while about Dean trying to recreate all the scars he had before Castiel pulled him from Hell and healed him up. Ended up writing it yesterday, and it... escalated slightly. I still haven't proofread it, but. Oh well.
> 
> This was also my day 342 thing for my 365.

Sam has been pretending. Dean can see it in his eyes every time his brother looks at him; it bothers him that Dean looks different. Of course it does; Dean’s smooth all over and he takes to wearing longer sleeves and higher collars because every square inch of unmarred skin is, ironically, a constant, quiet reminder of being fished out of Hell.

Sam’s not the only one pretending.

It’s after a shower. Air’s thick and warm with steam and there’s a knife on the counter because Dean doesn’t go anywhere unarmed these days. He’s half-dressed and the door’s open a crack like it always is, but Sam’s- Sam’s gone for breakfast. A run. Maybe he went to find himself a brother who isn’t such a screw-up; whatever the case, he’s gone, and Dean’s alone, and the mirror draws too much of his attention and he’s left staring, heart in his throat when he lifts a hand to drag his fingertips through the condensation. 

Everything is very distinctly _wrong_. 

He’s missing pieces. Physical evidence of his entire life; a roadmap of every fight he’s ever won or lost, every time his life has nearly ended. Every bullet, every claw, every set of gnashing, razor-sharp teeth that have tried to tear him to bits. Makes him wonder, for a fleeting moment, if he’s imagining each and every one of those moments. Wouldn’t be hard; if there’s anything he proved in the pit, it’s that he’s got one hell of an imagination under pressure, and trying to convince himself that he’s a hero, that he’s good, that he’s _worthy_  of being yanked out of Hell by an angel of the fucking Lord-

Dean is spiralling fast and there is not a single familiar mark on his body with which he can ground himself. Only the raised handprint on his shoulder remains; an alien claim staked by a being looking to use him as a means to an end.

The other scars were real once, too. He’s sure of it. 

Maybe if- if he could just-

Maybe.

It’s- it’s real. Everything was real; all twenty-nine years before going to Hell, every memory, every hunt, every second of every day was _real_.

Like the ‘shifter, when he was fifteen. The ‘shifter that caught him with a knife; just nicked him, really, barely deep enough to scar, but it’s- he remembers. He finds the place on his left forearm where the little mark used to be and just touches it, fingers the disconcertingly smooth skin and- and he remembers. That was real. That happened, undeniably, even… even if there’s no proof anymore. Even if that was wiped away by a celestial being, erased and forgotten. 

He’s digging too hard into his own flesh, and maybe it’ll bruise, but that… that doesn’t seem good enough. Bruises fade, but scars- scars are forever.

They’re supposed to last forever.

There’s a moment of blurriness that ends with Dean holding the knife, and his- his hand is shaking as his fingers tighten around its grip, trying hard to focus. Doesn’t know what he’s trying to focus on but it ends with the blade pressed to his skin, right where he remembers the ‘shifter cutting him, and it’s- he’s just gonna scrape a little. Just a bit; just enough to remember, and to solidify that moment in his mind. To give it the sort of concrete certainty that Hell is trying so fucking hard to take away from him, where forty years becomes eternity and the life he lived before that is- it’s-

It’s _real._

It’s more convincing once there’s blood dripping from his arm, and he’s absolutely meticulous about recreating the scar. Registers the pain somewhere distant but it’s inconsequential now and he’s breathing too hard and too fast, finishing off with a tiny flick of his wrist, just like before. Just like when he got it in the first place.

For a long few seconds, he stares too hard at the crimson smeared across his skin, but then he’s moving on, sinking down to the floor in slow motion while he trembles, trying to find another spot on his body; another memory that the angel took away from him.

He finds the black dog that bit him at nineteen, and he continues to carve reality back into his own skin, detached and quiet and unfailingly precise. 

By the time the door opens, Dean is too far-gone to hear it, and he’s shaking so bad that when Sam finds him that he doesn’t offer even a token resistance when his knife is taken away.

He’s numb, bleeding in too many places to count in his attempts to recreate his own life. Doesn’t realize he’s talking while Sam cleans him up, mumbling under his breath.

“Real,” he’s whispering, over and over again, eyes a little hazy and unfocused. Reality is muted around him and Sam exists in pretty, bright colours, cleaning his self-inflicted wounds and bandaging them to allow them to heal. Dean can’t help but wonder, bitterly, if they’ll scar at all after his brother’s gentle attention, but he doesn’t have the energy to voice his concerns and before he knows it, Sam’s sitting beside him on the floor and gathering him up in his lap and- and-

Holding him.

Dean stops mumbling because he feels like a child, suddenly, small and vulnerable in Sam’s arms, and Sam’s started talking, instead, whispering into Dean’s hair as he cradles him close and… and this feels backwards.

“You’re okay,” Sam’s telling him, and his fingertips are light and gentle as he starts to trace out all the scars that Dean has failed to replicate. Scars he’s forgotten he’d ever had until Sam ghosts them into his skin, gentle scratch of fingernails raising goosebumps in their wake. “You’re good, Dean. You’re good.”

Dean stays quiet and still and as attentive as he can be, not ignorant of what Sam is giving him; he has no other way to get this validation and to confirm these memories, and Sam- Sam’s doing it for him. Sam’s tracing promises into his skin that say  _“yes, it was real, and yes, you remember.”_  Digging up a million tiny moments that make up Dean’s entire life and it steals the air right out of Dean’s lungs, sends him hiding in the curve of his brother’s neck and closing his eyes against the invasive overhead light.

Sam smells clean and soft and familiar. Sam feels real and solid and good.

Sam is here, and Sam is taking care of him, and Dean thinks that if Sam is willing to do this for him, then- then maybe Dean’s worth it, after all. 

Maybe, for now, he doesn’t need the scars to prove it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3


End file.
